


21 March, 1967

by Morgan Steelgrave (m_steelgrave)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling, The Beatles
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-15
Updated: 2010-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_steelgrave/pseuds/Morgan%20Steelgrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul first noticed the big black dog one day when he was pulling the car through the gate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	21 March, 1967

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thorne_scratch](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thorne_scratch).



Paul first noticed the big black dog one day when he was pulling the car through the gate. The usual crowd of girls was there, waiting to catch a glimpse of him as he returned to his home at St. John's Wood. Not for the first time, Paul wondered what it would be like to slam on the accelerator before the scruffs had a chance to get out of the way, to scatter them onto the hood of the car.

The dog managed to squeeze through the gate before Paul could close it. "Run along, you," he said to the dog. The dog whined and crouched at Paul's feet, wagging its tail twice.

"I've seen it before, you know. It won't work." Paul grabbed the stack of papers covered with scribbled notations from his studio work that day and slammed the car door closed. He ignored the dog and crossed to the house, rolling his eyes as the screeching outside the gate reached a new decibel when he came into view. He smiled and waved quickly, muttering under his breath, "Yeah, yeah. Give it a break, you stupid twits."

The dog snarled. Paul glanced down, momentarily wary, until he noticed the direction of the dog's glare. One of the girls was attempting to climb over the wall on the far side of the property. She fell backward with a squeak when the dog charged in her direction, barking.

Paul laughed — he couldn't help it. The dog loped back, and Paul could swear it was wearing a cocky grin. "All right, all right." He opened the front door and gestured for the dog to enter the house.

Martha was waiting to greet him just inside the door. She nudged his leg affectionately and Paul scratched her ear. He felt her tense when she noticed the black dog's presence. Paul rested a hand on her side and said, "We've a guest, Martha." The black dog wagged his tail and allowed Martha to give him a thorough inspection. Within moments, the dogs were rolling around on the floor, nipping at each other and chasing one another around the room. Paul smiled and loosened the scarf around his neck as he left the animals to their own devices and wandered into the kitchen.

Paul rummaged around for a snack and a drink and, mission accomplished, headed into the other room to look over the notes from the studio. He sat on the sofa, guitar cradled in his lap, with Martha on the seat next to him and the black dog staring up at him from the floor. He was soon lost to chords and rhymes, every now and then reaching down to absently pat one dog or the other between strumming and scribbling.

His concentration was broken by the jarring buzz of the intercom box. Paul stood with a sigh, stretching his arms over his head to work out the kinks in his shoulders. He wandered over to the intercom, taking his time even though the person waiting at the gate was pushing the button repeatedly in an impatient tattoo.

"Hello?" he asked as he pushed the button on the box.

"Christ, Paul, lemme in already," John's voice pleaded. "These birds won't leave me alone out here."

"Since when have you complained about getting pawed at by a group of birds?" said Paul with a smirk.

"You can question my motives later, you tit, just let me in!" Paul complied and pressed the button to unlock the gate for John. He opened the front door and watched John shake off the admirers and make a mad dash for the house. Paul waved at the fans as John pushed past him and into the house. His best friend swatted at his hand, muttering something about encouraging the nutters.

"You have to at least be cordial," Paul insisted.

"My arse," said John. "I need a drink."

"Hello to you too, Mr. Lennon," quipped Paul. He motioned for John to follow him into the kitchen, but John's noise of surprise made him stop and turn around.

The black dog was standing in front of him, head cocked to one side. "The fuck is that?"

"I brought him home from a bar. Thought he was cute," Paul joked. "It's a dog, John."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, now that that's settled, what the hell is it doing in your house?"

"I dunno," said Paul with a shrug.

" _Another_ mutt, Paul?"

The black dog growled at John. For some reason, Paul took offense at John's tone. "Why not?" he asked, continuing on his journey into the kitchen. "I like him."

"You already have one great ugly beast following you around, demanding to be fed and walked and God knows what else. You don't need another one."

"Don't be jealous, Johnny," Paul smiled as he pulled a glass from the cupboard. "I'll walk you, too."

"Thinks he's a bloody comedian, this one," John said to the dogs. The black dog barked once. John rolled his eyes.

Paul shoved a glass of gin in his hand and returned to the couch. John followed, keeping a wary eye on the dogs. "When are you going to apologize to George for using Mike to arrange?" he asked.

With a sigh, Paul scratched the black dog's head. He'd been frustrated with George Martin's absence a few days ago - the producer was off working with Cilla on something - so Paul had asked Mike Leander to arrange the orchestral bits on "She's Leaving Home." He hadn't really considered that George would be upset, but upset he was.

"Is he still sore?" Paul asked. John snorted.

"He hasn't said as much, but he's being so fucking professional it makes me want to scream. Stoic bastard."

"Mmm," agreed Paul.

"Sergeant-Fucking-Pecker," John muttered from behind his glass. "I know you want to finish the thing, Paulie, but do you have to make it miserable for the rest of us?"

Caught between the three sets of puppy eyes, John's from behind granny glasses, Paul threw up his hands. "Right, I'll talk to him."

"Good man," said John. "Now let's hear that idea for the bridge in "Getting Better."

They worked late, until the haze of gin and marijuana was too thick to think through. John was soon snoring, leaning heavily against Paul's shoulder, Martha a pile of fur at his feet. The black dog, too, was leaning on Paul, his head on his knee and his strange pale eyes watching Paul as he stayed awake for a long while, staring off into space and leisurely finishing his joint.

"What's your name, then?" Paul asked the dog. "Clearly it's time for bed, if I'm expecting a dog to answer me." He rubbed the joint out in his empty gin glass and carefully extricated himself from the tangle of limbs belonging to John and dogs alike. He rummaged around for a blanket and threw it over John and Martha before he stumbled blearily up the stairs. The black dog followed, and it occurred to Paul that the dog was almost guiding him up the stairs.

"I appreciate the help, friend," he said to the dog before sprawling fully-clothed across the bed. He soon drifted off, aware of the warmth that was the dog curled against his back.

That warmth was still there when Paul awoke in the morning. Without really opening his eyes, Paul reached across his shoulder to scratch the dog's head. He thought vaguely that the dog's hair was remarkably soft for dog's hair, and it was several long moments that fell in place like stubborn, rusty gears before Paul realized it was not, in fact, dog's hair twined between his fingers. Now fully awake, Paul turned to discover a strange young man spooned up behind him and most definitely naked.

With a yell Paul scrambled backwards, but only succeeded in falling off the bed. The ruckus was enough to awaken the boy, who appeared to be just as surprised at the situation. He stared at Paul with wide blue eyes and muttered, "Shit!" before streaking out of the room and down the stairs. Paul followed him as far as the front door, where the boy hopped the wall and disappeared. John appeared, clutching a piece of burnt toast and scratching his head.

"Who the fuck was that?"

"I've no idea," said Paul.

"And why was he starkers?"

"I don't know, John," Paul replied irritably. He closed the front door, making doubly sure to lock it.

"You didn't let him in?"

"Of course not!"

John shrugged. "Lot of good your vicious guard dogs are, if some nutter can sneak in here and...what was it he did, anyway?"

Paul scowled and made his way to the kitchen. "I don't want to talk about it," he muttered, putting the kettle on.

"Oho!" crowed John, irritatingly bright despite his hangover. Martha ambled into the kitchen, and John gave up on the blackened toast and handed it to the dog.

"Shut up, John." Paul opened the cupboard and paused. "Where's the other dog?"

A thorough search of the house turned up no trace of the dog. Paul was perplexed. How could the dog have been in the bed with him and not noticed that some stranger had not only broken in, but climbed into bed with the both of them? And where had he gone?

"Probably ran away when your naked madman arrived," John reasoned as he prepared to leave. "Just as well. I never liked the beast." Paul buzzed the gate for him and watched, tea cradled under his chin, as John fought his way through the already gathering crowd of scruffs.

A shower and a change of clothes made a world of difference, though Paul was still troubled as he drove to the studio. The truth of it was that he was far more disturbed by the disappearance of the dog, which he'd liked immensely, than by the mysterious appearance of the young man in his bed. Wondering what this said about himself, Paul walked into the studio and greeted the others. John had beaten him there, but was still looking surly and a bit worse for wear. Ringo and George were relatively civil, at least, and nodded their approval as Paul climbed the stairs to the booth to have an apologetic chat with George Martin.

When Paul came back down, John was trying to convince the others they should include a track of a high-pitched note in the run-out groove.

"Especially to annoy dogs," said John with a wink to Paul. Paul glared at him and suggested they begin.

They recorded a couple good takes of the piano solo for "Lovely Rita," though it took most of the morning. By early afternoon they were all looking a bit wilted, and John decided to ward off his lingering hangover with some uppers. They nearly made it through an hour of vocal recording before Paul noticed John was no longer singing. He exchanged a glance with George and Ringo.

"John?" he asked. John was still staring at the microphone as if it were a snake about to strike.

"I feel ill," he said.

"You look like you need some air, mate," said Ringo. George Martin called down from the booth that he'd take John to the roof, since there were so many tourists loitering outside on the street. John walked carefully to the stairs, clutching the rail as if he were trying not to slip on ice.

"Wonder what's wrong with him?" George crossed to John's chair and rummaged around the things scattered nearby.

"No idea," said Paul. "He seemed fine this morning, at least."

"Something he ate?" Ringo suggested.

"Paul," said George suddenly, holding out a handful of pills. "Are these what he just took?"

Paul took the pills from George and scrutinized them. "I guess so. Why, what...?" He felt his stomach land somewhere around his knees as he recognized the pills for what they were. "We let him go out on the fucking roof," he said, feeling sick.

"If he's up there when this hits him he might try to fly," said George. They bolted up the stairs. The roof had a low parapet that was dangerous enough sober, let alone when one was on an accidental acid trip. Sure enough, by the time they threw open the door to the roof, George Martin was fighting a losing battle to keep John from going anywhere near the roof's edge.

Paul turned to George. "Go get Mal," he said, hoping the bigger man could handle John better than the rest of them could. With a nod George was back down the stairs, and Paul and Ringo ran to help George Martin hold John down. John was struggling closer to the edge of the roof, insisting he should, "float down and greet his adoring public."

"You'll do no such thing," Paul said and then promptly ducked as John took a swing at him. Glancing down at the crowd on the street below, Paul barely registered the presence of a familiar dark-haired young man, gazing seriously up at the chaos on the roof from among the waving fans.

Suddenly there came a victorious cry from John as he shook free of George and Ringo. Paul watched in horror as he stepped up on the parapet, arms wide. "John!" he said, but before Paul could do anything but make a grab for the tail of John's polka-dotted shirt, he dove over the edge.

There was a cry of alarm from the crowd below. A part of Paul knew he didn't want to see the sight that was surely lying sprawled across the concrete below, but he still leaned over the edge of the wall, hoping beyond hope for a miracle. And there it was, cradling a shivering John in his arms and looking directly at Paul with wide blue eyes.

"Get out of my way," said Paul thickly as he shoved George and Ringo aside and ran pell-mell down the stairs and out the door. Mal met him at the front of the building with the car. Pushing his way through the crowd, Paul found John lying on the concrete, curled in a trembling ball but without any sign of injury. The boy had vanished.

"Let's get him in the car," said Mal, and Paul cleared the way for Mal to load John into the back seat. Paul climbed in after. "Mine's closest," he said, and Mal started out for Paul's house at Cavendish. He'd barely made the block, however, when Paul placed a hand on Mal's shoulder and ordered him to stop. Paul opened the door, but did not get out of the car.

The black dog was peering at him nervously from behind a trash bin. Paul pointed at it. "You. Get in here. You owe me an explanation." After a moment of hesitation, the dog climbed in back with Paul and John. Mal threw Paul a questioning glance in the mirror, but Paul offered no explanation as they drove the rest of the short distance to Paul's home.

Mal helped Paul drag John into the house and then left at Paul's insistence. John had been deposited on the very couch where he'd spent the previous night. When Paul returned from letting Mal out, he found John smiling at the black dog.

"Paulie! Your naked boy's back!" he said, pointing haphazardly at the dog. Paul ignored John's words and gathered him into a tight hug.

"Alright, Paulie?" John asked.

"No," said Paul, pulling away and giving John's shoulders a shake. "No, I'm not alright. Fucking hell, John! You scared me to death!"

John smiled and patted Paul's knee. "S'alright. He caught me." When Paul realized John was indicating the dog, he stood with a sigh.

"Right. Why am I wasting a perfectly good lecture on you when you're high as a kite?" John had already sunk back into the couch, luxuriating in the upholstery. Paul walked to the kitchen and leaned heavily on the counter, his throat tight.

He felt rather than saw the young man standing a respectful distance behind him. Without turning, Paul said, "I suppose I should thank you for being in the right place at the right time."

"Anyone would have done the same," the young man answered. He had an aristocratic voice, with London notes.

"Clearly you're not anyone," Paul said as he finally turned to face him. He was wearing a leather jacket Paul and the boys would have coveted in their Hamburg days. He had longish hair and a wicked grin.

"Aren't you glad?"

"I should be," Paul conceded. In the other room, John was laughing hysterically at something.

"How'd you do it?" asked Paul.

"Magic."

Paul's jaw tightened. "This is hardly the time for jokes."

"I wasn't joking," said the young man.

This was all too much, thought Paul. "Look, if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine," he said angrily. "I'll thank you for doing whatever it is you did and ask you to leave."

The young man considered him for a moment, but finally said, "I'll let myself out." He paused at the kitchen doorway as if to say something else, but decided against it. A moment later Paul heard the front door open and close.

Paul sighed — something he seemed to be doing a lot of lately — and poured a glass of gin. He almost wished the young man had stayed, but he was too big a mystery for Paul to deal with at the moment. John singing tunelessly in the other room was more than enough. Paul fished his cigarettes out of his pocket; he'd snuck a pack of Woodbines when Brian wasn't looking. At the bottom of his pocket his fingers found the pills George had given him. He laid one on the counter and considered it as he struck a match and lit his cigarette. There came a tremendous crash from the other room.

What the hell, Paul thought, you can't love a drunk when you're sober. He popped the pill and washed it down with a large swallow of gin before joining John in the other room.

It was not until the wee hours of the morning that the LSD in John's system released its hold enough for him to sleep. Paul was still floating down gently, wrapped in a bathrobe and smoking a joint at the front window. Martha was seated beside him, snuffling his fingers absently. It was raining, and had been for hours. The trails of water were endlessly fascinating; Paul found himself making bets on the drops like horses as they raced downward to the sill.

The weather and early hours had driven even the most dedicated scruffs from their posts outside the gate. The young man, however, was still there. Paul could see him through the window, seated on the curb. Every so often he would shake his head to get his black hair and the water out of his eyes.

The boy and the black dog reminded him of John during their school days, a strange, restless mix of hard angles that belonged to a man but were still carried like a child.

For reasons he did not stop to consider, Paul left the window and opened the front door. Martha ambled up beside him and barked once in greeting to the boy. Paul quirked an eyebrow at the sheepdog, then glanced back out into the rain to find the boy smiling. Martha whined happily.

"Hush, you," said Paul. He buzzed the gate open and scratched Martha behind her ears as the boy stepped through the gate and up the front steps. He stood there, sopping wet and expectant.

"I never really thanked you. Not really," Paul said after a moment.

"And I never told you my name when you asked me the other night," said the boy. He held out a hand and said, "Sirius Black."

Paul smiled. "Come on, then," he said, stepping aside to let the young man in. "Make yourself at home. You know where everything is already."

Sirius smiled. "That I do," he said, and closed the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much all the events on the Beatles side of things are in fact truth (including John's accidental acid trip), but I have taken extreme liberty with Sirius, seeing as he'd be, oh, eight at the most in 1967.


End file.
